


The Devil in the Details

by Lightspeed



Series: Monstrous Intent [23]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Anal Sex, Angst, Arguing, Blood, Decapitation, Drama, Driving, Excessive Mockery of New Jersey, Eye Trauma, Hospitals, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic, New Jersey, Not Really Character Death, Oral Sex, Pennsylvania, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Sexual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:51:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2460599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An outing to bed another denizen of the darkness finds Demoman at the breaking point for his exasperation.  Sniper’s taken risks before, but never like this.  Temper flare, emotions run high, and things get incredibly dangerous when the bushman sees fit to enter the deadlands of the Garden State to bed its most famous cryptid: The Jersey Devil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil in the Details

"I ken ye like the danger. I ken ye like the thrill. But this is bloody madness, Mundy!"

Sniper leveled a look at the Scot, who was near-flailing with emphasis. "It's only New Jersey, mate."

"That's exactly what I mean! Ye ken as well as I that new world cryptids are right foul news! The ones old enough tae be native legend are always fearsome enough nae to be trifled with! There's a reason the native folk feared them, lad!"

"The only recorded incidents of violence are livestock," the bushman argued. He held his suitcase in one hand, finishing up loading the van. The trip would be three days of driving if he kept a sensible pace, so knowing Sniper, it would be two days of bleary-eyed hell instead. "Not a single human or humanoid casualty."

"There's a first for everything," the Scot countered, climbing into the passenger seat and waiting for Sniper to close things up before taking his spot on the driver's side.

"You can stay here if you want, Tav," Sniper offered. He'd never even asked Demoman to come along in the first place, just told him he was going and the bomber had decided to follow, as he always did.

"Ye ken I cannae do that," Demoman groused, kicking his boots up onto the van's dash and settling in. "Someone's got tae be here tae keep yer arse alive."

"You act like I can't do that myself."

"Yer downward trend says otherwise."

"I'll show you a downward trend," the assassin growled, starting up the camper van.

"Nae while yer drivin', lad."

 

*

 

Day faded slowly, softly, easing into a long night. The moon watched the vehicle trundle along cracked and empty roadways, bidding goodbye as the sun chased it away in a flourish of pastel mist. The ride seemed infinite, a rotating schedule of driving shifts and staggered sleeping shifts saw the two bedding down together for a mere four hours, with Sniper alone for the first four of his eight hour sleep, and Demoman alone for his final four hours after the rangy gunman had squirmed out of his friend's grasp and crawled back into the cab to resume their trip. Minimal stops for the basics of waste disposal and a packed mini-fridge in the camper saw their vehicle wheeling across the country in a mere thirty-seven hours, night having overtaken the day once again with righteous indignation. Sitting, road-weary, aching and uncomfortable in the cab, the two mercenaries watched as the lights grew fewer, the trees grew denser, the stars grew clearer as they sped out of the Philadelphia city limits. With another hour left until they reached their destination, assuming traffic stayed clear and Sniper continued driving like speed limits were an offensive joke.

The winding mountain roads of Pennsylvania, cris-crossing rivers and steep, tree-lined inclines abutting swaths of rolling, hilly farmland had stopped at the giant city, its handsome old buildings, curvy highways, and urban decay a far cry from the highs and lows of the rest of the state's greenery. Where the cool greens of warm spring and summer had given way to a blaze of reds, purples, and yellows, the city offered mostly greys and browns to accompany the bright neon haze of commerce and civilization. All of this gave way to flatter grasslands, shady groves and level farms, and roads far better-kept. The final stretch was going to be far less labyrinthine and smoother, if less visually interesting.

"Ye dinnae even ken if it's able tae shag, let alone if it's willin'!" Demoman tried to reason, one elbow out the window of the van's passenger door. The cool fall air filled the cab, keeping both men awake over the droning buzz of music on the radio, kept turned down low for conversation. "It's like tae just see ye as a tall skinny sow and gut ye, Mundy. Then we'll be dead centre nowhere with no Medic to piece ye back together. This is a fool's errand, lad. All of the others, ye at least knew what ye were doing. Ye had mountains and generations of research and writing and cryptoanthropological studies tae go off o'. The bloody Devil is nae even known tae have language, let alone interact with other sapient creatures! It's only ever been recorded killin' things and scaring the shite out o' tourists by screamin' at them! No conversation, no peaceful contact, not even a 'get off me bloody lawn' out o' the bastard! Ye read a few folk tales and called it research, Mundy! Yer goin' in blinder 'n me mum, and she's got no eyes, lad!"

"Not like I 'aven't tracked down reclusive mythics before, Tav."

"Not like this one ye haven't! Ye dinnae even ken if it's sapient!"

"It's sapient," Sniper assured him. "And if, somehow, 'e's not, then you'll have another notch in your sword for nuisance cryptids slain."

"I hunt bloody water monsters, not some half-arsed New Jerseyan flying kelpie what yells a lot!"

"You also repeat yourself. This is the third time today you've seen fit to explain all of this to me, and I've lost track how many since we left Teufort. You've not stopped complaining." Sniper frowned, snatching his tepid gas station coffee from the cup holder and taking a swig.

"With good bloody reason! Yer walkin' intae something so bloody dangerous it's staggerin'! Ye dinnae have respawn tae cover yer arse out here if ye get yerself mutilated, Michael Mundy!"  
"'s why you're here, innit? Why you tag along? Keep an eye on me, make sure I come back to base in one reasonable piece?"

"Aye, that's it then? Why worry about keepin' yer skin intact when ye have Tavish at yer heel like a good boy? Why act like a bloody sane human being when ye have yer lapdog tae bail ye out?" Demoman chewed at the inside of his lip, a frowning pout holding back the torrent of vitriol clinging to his tongue. He locked his jaw and crossed his arms.

"A good boy? Bloody hell, Tav I've never told you thing one of what to do! You're the one who follows me around, like I'm a child who doesn't know any better!" I've been doin' this for years; I know what I'm doing! Just because _you think_ I need a bodyguard doesn't mean I do!"

"Ye clearly do! Ye act like a feckin' idiot! Dinnae think I haven't noticed how much riskier ye've gotten since the first few times I came out with ye! Ye've been gettin' more and more flagrant with it, takin' more and more risks!" The Scot gesticulated wildly as he spoke, near-spitting with emphasis. "Ye rely on me rather'n being prepared proper! Ye coast, ye damn numpty! What happened to the professional ye always bill yerself as? Ye talk yerself up, but yer just a hormonal jackass who's a slut for danger!"

Sniper took a breath through his nose, his grip on the wheel tight enough to hurt. He measured his temper out, slowly, and spoke with a clipped, even tone that belied his fury. "I research. I learn. I plan. I prepare. I make sure I am ready before I ever step foot out of base. I know exactly what I am doing, Tavish. And if you think I need a guard dog you're sorely mistaken. I have never asked or told you to come along; you do that of your own accord. I don't need protectin'. I get it. I'm the first person you ever told about the wolf. But I'm not the only one who knows your furry little secret anymore. You don't need to keep your pet human safe for the sake of a regular, guilt-free shag."

"Guilt-free shag? Och, aye, that's the reason. I'm here to keep my fuck-friend alive! Not because I bloody care about ye and whether ye live or die; nothin' like that! Or is that all ye think I'm about? Is that all I'm good for, Mundy? A regular shag? Ye put up with me just for a chance tae fuck a werewolf? Is that all I am?"

Sniper snarled, baring teeth as his eyes squinted hard at the road before them. "Of course not! How— _fuck you_ for even suggesting that! How dare you say I'm that sort of selfish prick!"  
"An how dare ye suggest all I care about is the fucking wolf, ye self-righteous pillock!"

A silence fell on the cab, thick, heavy, cloying like steam and smoke, pushing against the men in the furious heat of their anger. The night air seeped the warmth from their flesh as they sped down the New Jersey highways, not a word spoken between them for the rest of the drive.

 

*

 

Demoman jerked awake as the van came to a halt and the engine went quiet. He hadn't even realized he was beginning to doze, his cheek resting firmly on one hand, elbow digging into the door. His legs were crossed ankle-to-knee and he felt a tingle that indicated he'd reap the whirlwind of a sleeping limb the moment he moved.

The driver's side door slammed as Sniper hopped out of the vehicle and rounded to the camper to go fetch his supplies. Demoman made to follow, bleary and stiff, but memories of their argument not an hour prior quickly flooded back, and he decided to take his time.

He'd watch after Sniper, because he knew this was a fool's errand. He wanted to punch the taste out of the stubborn arse's mouth, but he'd be damned if he'd let the rangy bastard die on his watch. Though this would be the last time he'd accompany the swaggering numpty on one of his outings.

He was done convincing himself there was something where there clearly wasn't. If Sniper didn't need him, then he didn't need Sniper. Nevermind the warm summer nights curled together in this very van, limbs tangled and smiles pressed to warm skin. Nevermind his enchanting scent and the beautiful gasp he'd let out when the bomber's rough fingers slipped up his thighs. Nevermind the warm hum of his fried voice as they nattered on about absolutely nothing, content in one another's company.

Letting his legs down, pins and needles rushing to assault his sleeping limb, the Scot popped open the door and slowly dragged himself out of the van. It clearly didn't mean anything to the bushman, no matter how much it meant to Demoman.

Sniper set about gathering his supplies. Lubricant, a bracelet charm to resist compulsions, another bracelet to resist energy drain, his enchanted sunglasses to resist gazes, a lens to detect magic, and a knife strapped to his calf, just in case. He tugged a small cooler out from under the table and opened a large wooden box that sat beside the cab wall. Sitting inside the small chest were a number of different lures and calls.

The bushman knelt, sitting back on his heels. What in the hell would he use to call this thing? Others followed a line of reason, or legend. He didn't know of any legends for calling this Devil. He didn't know much of it at all.

Maybe Demoman was right. Maybe he was in over his head, overestimating himself, underestimating the danger. Maybe he was a damn fool.

Demoman.

Sniper chewed at his rage. How dare he suggest such things! Telling him he was a half-cocked fool was one thing. There was a pretty solid precedent for that, whether the bushman wanted to admit that or not. Certainly it had gotten him angry, but then--

Then when he'd suggested he didn't care about him, that he was using Demoman, that all he wanted was a shag? That had stung.

That had seared through him, nothing further than the truth. He was a friend, a comrade. A lover.

Sniper let out a heavy sigh. He was stupid, so stupid. He should've never let himself fall for the handsome Scot, never let his friend, his teammate, in like that. He should've known it would complicate everything, and lo and behold, it had.

The stubborn wolfman thought he knew everything, thought he knew how Sniper felt. Presumptuous bloody--

With a quiet growl, Sniper stood, picking up his cooler, a warm, pulsing red gem in one hand. It was shaped like a human heart, and against his skin, he could feel it shuddering quietly. An artifact normally reserved for calling demons, he figured it would be good enough for a Devil, regardless of the name's accuracy. It was better than nothing.

He grabbed hold of his lube and dropped his pants, bending over the small nook table within the camper and set to work, preparing himself for what was to come. He hazarded on the larger side of things, unsure how big the beast was. Gritting his teeth, he began to slip his fingers into himself, trying to focus on what was to come rather than what had just happened. It was a difficult endeavour.

Demoman checked his weaponry, what little he'd brought, though if he could, he'd have toted along his entire arsenal and one of Engineer's dispensers for good measure. His sticky launcher was loaded, cleaned, and ready to go. The Eyelander waited patiently in its scabbard, slung over the Scot's back and whispering, "Headssss..."

When Sniper was sure he was prepared enough, he washed his hand in the sink and tugged his pants up, fastening them closed with a grunt. Hopefully that was enough. Gulping hard, he stepped out of the van, cooler in one hand, and kicked the door closed. He looked out into the darkness, long shadows along the forest floor with bright moonlight filtering through. They were in the middle of nowhere, dead centre of the New Jersey pine barrens, somewhere near the border of Atlantic County. It was dark, it was chilly, and the two mercenaries wore grim expressions as they acknowledged one another.

Sniper took a deep breath and raised his lens to one eye. One muttered word of activation later and the device sprang to life, growing comfortably warm in the bushman's hand as he slowly scanned the tree line. He'd been studying recent citings, checking maps and triangulating a common stretch of territory. He'd parked the van at the very centre of it. He wasn't completely sure what he was walking into, but he knew exactly where he was walking, and with a quiet blip on the lens, a soft reddish light in the far distance, Sniper began to trek in that direction.

Watching with dispassionate annoyance, Demoman followed, the Eyelander slung across his back, sticky launcher in one hand. Heavy, weary footfalls crunched through the leaves that had deigned to fall so early into the season, and the Scot could feel a cool wind blowing through him. It felt like the chill of the grave, and he wondered if somewhere Soldier had found a horse.

A good ten minutes' walk found the two in what looked like the site of a lightning strike. A large, old pine stood bare of needles, half of its trunk blown out as if bombed, and the ground around it dead and barren, littered with wood chips. Several others were cracked and fallen nearby, forming a large circle of destruction at the middle of the dense forest. The chorus of frogs and birds that chirped and croaked through the trees grew silent as they approached the circle, growing completely silent within. Even the gentle breezes tickling through the pines had grown still.

Sniper's lens pulsed red, enough so that Demoman could see it over his shoulder, as the bushman looked all around them. The magic was ambient, and consumed the entire clearing, and in that moment, Sniper knew. He tucked the lens into a pocket and set to work.

He popped the cooler open, revealing a skinned, partially rotten, limbless goat carcass. Wrinkling his nose at the stench, he carried the thing to the centre of the circle, and left it there, cooler and all. He held the heart-shaped gem in his hands and drew his knife, digging the tip just barely into the back of his forearm to draw blood. He wiped one hand across the wound, then placed the gem into his bloodied hand. The heart began to glow.

Red light pulsed from Sniper's hand, from the artifact contained within, a beacon to all things nefarious and cruel, a call to fiends written in blood. It grew hotter and hotter, not quite enough to burn, but enough to make the bushman ache with discomfort in holding the stone. He felt the call in an ebb of energy, a disturbance in the pressure of the air like waves spreading from a rock thrown into a still pond. The wind returned, whipping up around him and carrying his hat off up into the air, where it fluttered back to the ground to land beside Demoman's foot.

A branch cracked and whined, tumbling to the ground in a hiss of dead pine needles. Whirling to see, Sniper's eyes went wide as he saw it, perched at the broken end of the branch. Thick, sturdy, hooved legs supported a slouched torso somewhat like a man's, with long arms ending in enormous, clawed hands. Stretched out to show their size, a pair of leathery bat-like wings emerged from its back, ragged yet muscular, and twice the length of its body in span on each side. A long, slender tail trailed from the base of his spine, curled around the end of the branch to balance himself. It was muscular, crimson-fleshed with wooly, shaggy black fur around its hooves, hips, shoulders, tail, and head. A pair of enormous, black antlers, branching in a multitude of vicious points like a crown, sprung from his brow, his leaf-shaped ears framing them. Large fangs protruded from his long maw, which stretched from his forehead in equine shape, leading to a nose that was a mere pair of nostrils astride his mighty muzzle. Set close enough to the front to denote a predator, but far enough to the sides to bring a nauseous disquiet bubbling into the men below, his eyes glowed a bright, bloody red.

"The Jersey Devil," Sniper breathed, a grin crossing his thin face.

Demoman jawed uselessly at the air, fingering idly at the trigger guard of his sticky launcher.

"I bring you an offering!" Sniper called to the Devil, gesturing to the open cooler full of putrid goat. "For which I request a service!"

The Jersey Devil's laugh didn't hum through the air, but the ground, rattling the layer of fallen pine needles upon which the mercenaries stood. It thrummed through the sandy soil, the ash, the splinters, the wood of every fallen, mutilated tree within the circle of devastated forest. It forced Sniper's heart out of rhythm, beating in time with his rolling chuckles and stealing the air from his lungs. As the bushman began to crumple, the Devil released him and dropped unceremoniously to the ground with a _thump_ heavier than any creature his size, considerable as it may have been, had any right to leave.

Seeing the Devil before him, Sniper finally had an eye for his size. He was massive, the size of Demoman in full hybrid form, towering a foot over him and thrice as broad, not counting his wing span. His tail thrashed idly about behind him as he approached, grinning. He did not speak, but Sniper knew his words, pounding in his head with a low bassy thrum.

_**What has you convinced that you can bargain with me, mortal? What makes you think you have anything I desire? Do you know what you trifle with?** _

"I know they call you Mrs. Leeds' son, and you've been seen for generations, usin' your voice to terrify the folk, eating their livestock and leaving the pickings. But you're older, far more ancient. The Leni Lanape feared you, and wouldn't tread on the grounds you owned. You're part of these deadlands, where man can't cultivate anything but life flourishes checked only by fire."

 _ **You know more than most. To so many I'm a road-side attraction, like that sellout Bigfoot.**_ The Devil's muzzle pulled up in an imitation of a smirk.

Sniper tried to tamp down his memories of Bigfoot. He was glad Demoman hadn't been around for that encounter.

**_So what exactly is it that you have searched me out for? With a cooler of rotten goat, no less. My favourite dish, if a bit poorly presented._**

"In exchange for this offering, I'm here to request a night of congress," Sniper began, trying to remember some of the terms fiends tend to prefer. He wasn't sure if this Devil was an actual devil, but he wasn't about to mince words to find out. "I offer this goat and my body."

Demoman watched intently, the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end. He could feel his gums itching, scents growing stronger around him. He felt the awful tingles that a transformation chased, but the full moon had just passed. Looking up at the sky, he confirmed that the moon--

The moon was gone.

Demoman realized he hadn't looked up past the tree line before entering the clearing, but the moon, the stars, the clouds, everything, was gone. Above stretched a yawning, black void that blotted out everything in utter, cloying darkness beyond the tips of the scarred pines that ringed the devastated clearing. Behind him he could see the path they took, the moonlight shining upon the trees and plants from whence they'd come, but within the circle, the sky simply wasn't. He began to panic, his breath coming fast, his heart beginning to race. What was this creature?

_**A tempting offer, but a bit surprising. It sounds like I am doing you a favour for a simple snack. Certainly you can fulfill your carnal needs elsewhere? Like with your lupine companion, for example?** _

"I'm here because you're here, and I want you to use my body for your pleasure," Sniper explained, his breath growing short. He could feel heat rising inside of himself, his eyes wandering over the Devil's muscular frame. He was gorgeous, and horrifying, beautiful and terrible, and the bushman was feeling very, very warm. "I beg you, fuck me."

 _ **You speak plainly now. Amazing what arousal can do to a mortal's manners.**_ The Devil chuckled again in a way that made the mercenaries' feet and legs buzz and grow weak.

Sniper succumbed to the sensation and fell to his knees, only to find himself seized by the collar by a large, clawed hand and dragged forward, a girthy appendage leveled at his face.

The Devil grinned down at him again, fangs and teeth at all angles, not quite making sense for how they all fit in the same mouth. From between his thighs, from the fur that coated him there, his cock stood proudly out, summoned to life in an instant. It was long, thick, and bright red as it throbbed hotly before Sniper's lips, shaped not like a man's cock, but something far stranger. It curved upward, pointed with a head that flared out to the sides but was smooth along its underside, at least until the ridges began. A series of fleshy ridges lined the underside of the shaft, running from just below the head to just above its base, and Sniper found himself wanting to suckle at each one in succession.

The bushman gulped and licked his lips, opening his mouth to let his tongue flick out against the warm head of the Devil's cock. He smelled and tasted of smoke and char, like a forest fire made manifest, all of the power and desolation that entailed making up his every fibre. At the encouragement of a quiet grunt, Sniper leaned in and took him into his mouth, laving his wet tongue over his head, salivating with desire as he probed and teased at the wicked thing. It was smooth along the tip, flesh soft to the touch, and the assassin took his time trailing over every inch to be sure of that assessment before moving on, pulling off and lapping down the underside of the Devil's shaft, capturing each ridge between his lips and running his tongue over and under it, sucking gently and humming his pleasure.

The ground vibrated, pine needles shaking like they were laying upon the surface of an up-turned woofer as the Devil groaned quietly through the soil, his eyes focused on the human on his knees, lavishing him with attention, slurping down his cock, nuzzling into his balls and mouthing at them. The Australian was certainly skilled.

A massive hand found its way to Sniper's chin, tilting it up. The bushman found himself locking eyes with the monster standing over him.

_**This is not a time for technique. Open your mouth.** _

Sniper barely had time to comply before he found his mouth full again, the Devil shoving his cock past the human's lips and beginning to thrust. Any attempts to pull away were quickly stifled by that clawed hand gripping the back of Sniper's head to hold him in place as the Devil bucked into him.

His tongue cupping the underside of that ridged length, the assassin was unable to do anything but kneel there and grasp at the Devil's furry thighs as he forced his way into his throat. It hurt, roughly stretching and pressing into his throat, dragging his pointed cock along his soft palate. Sniper tucked a thumb into his palm and squeezed, trying to stifle the urge to gag as his eyes began to water, the rough fucking rubbing his throat raw. All the same, his cock throbbed in his trousers, the pain and discomfort only turning him on more, the danger and horror of the situation making his balls ache.

Demoman was right. He was a complete slut for danger. As he began to feel light-headed from the pathetic, shallow breaths he was able to capture, he started to gag and choke.

More of that foul laughter rumbled through the bushman's knees, making him push and shove at the Devil's legs, beginning to panic a little as he continued to be fucked and gagged. Behind him, he heard Demoman shift to take action, and the hand was gone. No longer forced down, Sniper shoved himself away, landing on his back in the nest of ash, sand, and pine needles that was the floor of the clearing, coughing away the thick mucous that had collected in his mouth and was oozing down his chin and neck.

"Bloody--"

Sniper didn't have time to protest further, snatched up by the legs and rolled onto his belly, the Devil kneeling to the ground behind him. He was tugged up onto his knees, breath picking up with anticipation. Those sharp claws made quick work of the ass and thighs of his trousers, bit into his bare flesh beneath as they worked with lazy imprecision. He yelped as he could feel blood begin to well in the new cuts in his hip, thighs, and one butt cheek, shallow as they were. He didn't have time to dwell on this, however, as he felt the mucous-slick length of the Devil press against his lubed, stretched hole.

He hoped he'd prepared enough.

The Devil pushed in, his grip on Sniper's hips tightening as he slid in, claws pricking into skin, through clothing. A long, heavy breath drew in through his flared nostrils, pushing ridge after ridge of his pointed cock into the bushman, feeling him shudder and tremble. He did not slow until he was rooted in Sniper's ass, his own balls brushing against the assassin's own.

Sniper panted, shook, tried to adjust to the insistent intrusion. The Devil was thick, long, but worst were the ridges, each slipping in with a pop, each wider than the last, keeping him jolting with each progressive press inside. When the monstrosity stalled out, he took a breath, thankful for the moment's respite. He was full, and the lube had held, thankfully, but the ingress was still rough from the un-lubed length being pushed into him. He had little time to steel himself as the Devil allowed a short buck, then withdrew almost entirely, tugging those ridges out, each popping past his muscle with sparks and fire, making his limbs lock up and his jaw go slack, then shoved his cock back in, only to repeat the process with quickly building speed. Tears sprang to his eyes again, and the bushman clawed at the ground as he ground his forehead into it, the electric sear of the Devil's wickedly textured member tearing out a little of his ability to think with each fleshy ridge to pass in and out of him, driving senseless yowls from his mouth.

The Devil dragged Sniper back onto his cock with each rough thrust into him, filling the human in his grasp with ruthless hunger. The mortal wanted intercourse? The mortal wanted to be fucked? The mortal offered his body? He would take it. One hand slammed down on Sniper's back, shoving him roughly into the ground as he bent forward over the bushman, digging his claws into his flesh as he picked up the pace. Punishing the foolish mercenary, he bucked harshly into Sniper's ass, fur clapping against his bare flesh, blood welling and running where his nails pierced his back. He dug in deeper, pulling his hand back slowly, dragging a gradual trail into the Australian's skin, watching as red began to run.

Sniper howled, the ecstatic pleasure of the stretch, of being filled, building pressure and heat inside him even as the soreness of the brutal pace wore at him. He'd been fucked like this few times before, with hate and with disdain, with complete disregard, using him as an absolute fuck hole. Then the claws came, the slow, ragged draw of sharp nails into the meat of his back, into skin and muscle, making him cry out less in pleasure and more in terror and pain. What in the hells was he doing?

Demoman watched Sniper's face for any sign, any indicator that he wanted this to stop. All he found was the clenched jaw of a man wrestling with conflicting sensations, hands fisting in the dirt. He flicked the safety off of his sticky launcher.

The Devil pulled out of Sniper, grinning at the yelp of pain, and snatched the bleeding mercenary up to flip him onto his back. He looked with disgust down at his intact front and grabbed hold of his shirt, tearing chunks away to get to his bare chest and belly, covered with dark, fluffy hair. The front of his pants were tented out, but dwindled as Sniper coughed and sputtered, the air driven from his lungs by the sudden landing. He cut the bushman's belt, tearing away his trousers from waist down, where his balls had hung out of the torn fabric. He now wore only barely-intact legs where slacks had been, his cock exposed to the air, his thighs bloody and scratched. The Devil took hold of both legs in one hand and lifted them, exposing Sniper to be impaled again on the monster's cock.

With a cry, the assassin found himself filled to the brim again, heat spreading through him as the Devil took no time in resuming his vicious thrusts. His legs were released, left to flop uselessly at either side of the beast as he took rough hold of Sniper's hips and fucked him ruthlessly. It felt so good, so angrily, viciously good, he could almost forget the prickle and sting of his bloody back and thighs, the pine needles that stuck to his shirt, caked in his own blood. The wounds would be a bitch to clean later, but they would be so worth it. Sniper laid back and let himself be used, trying to ignore the discomfort that frayed the edges of his bliss.

The Devil's laughter tickled at the human's wounds, deep, thrumming chuckles that overrode his throaty, animal grunts as he thrust deep into Sniper's ass. The wet squish of lubricant and the bushman's yowling moans drowned out his own physical noises, but that laughter was ever-present, rolling through the ground and part of the land itself. It began to rise, a booming tremor as one giant claw balled into a fist and swung for Sniper's cheek.

The bushman flinched as the blow landed hard, rocking his jaw and throbbing into his cheekbone, fissures of agony splintering through his skull as his flesh discoloured almost immediately. He made to scream, to spit, to voice his outrage, but before he could, his breath was stolen, that claw clamped down over his throat, pressing against the ground with just enough pressure to make him panic.

Sniper struggled, clutching at the Devil's wrist, blunt nails digging into his skin, legs kicking as the beast continued to rut into him, bowel-shaking laughter making him nauseated with terror. He was stilled by the beast's other hand coming to rest on his chest, claws digging into his skin, then lifting, and swiping across him, slashing deep gashes into his skin.

_**Presumptuous human, assuming that I can be bought and bargained with like some common fiend. Thinking you can control me. Thinking you can persuade me. Thinking a midnight snack and a scrawny man's well-tread ass would be enough to mollify me.** _

He leaned in close, tongue snaking out to taste the blood that seeped out of a spot along Sniper's cheekbone where his punch had split flesh.

_**You know nothing of that with which you meddle.** _

Claws met flailing arms, kicking legs, dragging deep red cuts into tanned, pink flesh, pausing to swipe again along belly and chest, carving deep, bloody lines into the bushman's body. Another punch rocked his face, then one to the middle, and Sniper tried, but failed to scream. The Devil's laugh thumped through the ground with each brutal thrust, fucking Sniper, mocking him with his impossible grin as he blazed inside of the squirming, suffocating human. Hot blood gushed from his angry, ragged wounds. Both hands came down on the human's neck, squeezing his windpipe. Sniper reached for the knife at his leg, digging beneath the remnants of his pant leg to draw the blade and sink it into the beast's side. The Devil reared up and let loose a scream into the void, a sound like the violent deaths of thousands in one breath, genderless, sexless, inhuman and horrible. It shook the ground, the air, scattering ash and dead needles from the broken trees,

A sudden _thud_ caught the Devil's attention as something hit the dead tree beside him with speed. He looked to see an orb covered in metal spikes.

_Thoomp, thoomp, thoomp. Thud, thud, thud._

Three more of the orbs imbedded in the tree beside him and the ground around and behind him. He noticed that there were four he hadn't even seen, already there.

His gaze snapped to Demoman, who stood there, launcher in hand, with smoke wisps of green magic bleeding from beneath his eyepatch. He snarled, teeth sharp, long, fierce, one golden eye wide with rage. Fire and metal bloomed around the Devil as the sticky bombs detonated, engulfing him in a concussive halo of destruction, placed precisely to leave Sniper untouched in the ensuing conflagration. The beast screamed, his voice like a solid force as metal and wood tore into his crimson flesh, fire and heat and air and pain enshrouding him. He crumpled forward and snatched Sniper into his claws, hurling him aside with a snort, black blood trailing from his wounds.

Sniper choked out a yelp as he went sailing across the clearing, bouncing off of the sandy turf before rolling and coming to a halt. He groaned and went limp, pine needles and chips of wood stuck to his bleeding wounds.

The Devil climbed to his hooves, shoulders slumped, spine bent, head leveled forward at the bomber. He flared his wings, leathery and dark.

_**You.** _

Demoman tugged the slide on his launcher, chambering a new bomb from the ammo drum. A tear rolled down his cheek. With a wordless holler, the bomber launched another set of stickies, drawing a wavering line across the ground and up the splintered tree as the Devil took flight with a leap and a flap. Explosions chased him skyward, raining shrapnel in all directions, biting at the beast as he ascended.

Reaching the tree-line, the Devil dove, streaking through the air for Demoman with his hands at his sides. He bowled into the Scot, wrapping powerful arms around his waist as his shoulder collided with the mercenary's gut. His feet went out from under him, and the sticky launcher flew from his hand as the speeding monster drove him back-first into the dirt, digging a trench with the force of their slide until coming to a halt against a self-dug wall of sandy soil and ash, the Devil perched atop him.

The Eyelander dug into Demoman's back, and he could feel a vicious bruise all along his torso formed by landing upon the blade's Damascus steel body. His shoulders ached where the crossguard bit into him. Even as he groaned, breathless, he could feel Eyelander softly whimpering, "Fuck..."

He agreed with the sentiment.

The Devil wasted little time, his hands slipping up to the Scot's bruised, battered back and digging his claws into the meaty muscle there, dragging outward to slice deeply into his lats. He flicked his hands out as they reached the edges of his back, painting the dry earth with bloody wings that shuffled under the ash as his laughter rattled the ground to the tune of Demoman's anguished scream.

Heat welled in the sandy divot in which Demoman lay, and he tried to ignore the blood, bit back the sharp, ripping pain. He'd felt enough of that every day at work to push through, raising up one arm to swing at the beast. Claws met his arm and dug into the flesh, curling around underneath until it felt like he was caressing the bone, then ripping away, taking meat and blood with him. He curled his claws together in a fist and slammed it into the Scot's maw, a pop sounding the breaking of his nose. Demoman bellowed, his other hand shooting up to club the beast beneath his eye, then again as it flinched. His ruined arm reached forward and he took hold of the Devil's face in both hands, his legs wrapping around the beast's torso to anchor them together as he dug his thumbs into the monster's red eyes, pushing hard, feeling the wetness against his skin, spurring him onward.

The Devil screamed, the force of his exhalation straining the Scot's grip, nearly forcing him away with the sound and fury alone, but Demoman hung on, pressing his thumbs in, clinging for dear life as the beast thrashed and shook. He reared up, arched and twisted, trying to dislodge the wily werewolf, claws scrabbling at his back, tearing into his skin, raking deep into his muscle and spraying red into the air. The Scot screamed, bellowed, roared with the rage of a man possessed, ignoring the coldness in his hands and feet, adrenaline and heartache overriding the searing agony, pushing him harder, jamming his thumbs into the Devil's eyes until he felt a pop, then another.

The scream was enough to shake him the second time, loosening his legs enough for the beast to grab hold of him with both massive hands, crushing his middle as it tore him lose. Demoman heard a crack, and was sure a rib had broken. With black blood coursing down his face, mixed with milky vitreous fluid, the Devil hurled Demoman across the clearing.

Demoman landed on one hip with a yelp, rolling to settle into a heap. His legs were growing numb, but he pushed himself up, looking over to Sniper.

He was all that mattered. Their stupid argument didn't matter. Their differences didn't matter. His stupid fear of chasing him off didn't matter. He'd already done it, and now they were both paying.

Tears flowed freely down the bomber's cheek. Sniper was the only person who'd never treated the wolf as anything more than part of Demoman. He'd never seen Demoman as something dangerous, something abhorrent, something evil because of what he really was. He'd found it attractive, if nothing else. It didn't matter if he loved him. It didn't matter, because he'd never treated him as anything less than a mate, as a friend. He trusted him. Trusted him, with his weaknesses, with his vulnerability, with his privacy, with his life!

Demoman couldn't let that trust be in vain. "Mick, please," he murmured, staggering to his feet, ignoring the screams and thrashing of the Devil in his suffering. He stumbled a moment, vertigo taking hold as he rose. He drew the Eyelander, steadying himself with the familiar weight to help balance him.

"THE HEAD!" the Eyelander bellowed, its voice no longer a whisper but a demand, a thirst that needed to be slaked. "TAKE ITS HEAD! SLAY THE BEAST!"

The ground rumbled, quaking ferociously with the wordless voice of the Devil, spitting bits and pieces of curses and epithets older than any of the tongues of man. Older than the trees, than the mountains. Vitriol as old as the void came in chunks and spurts, given form in paroxysms of the very land itself as the beast clutched at his face in outrage and agony.

"Aye," Demoman grinned wide, blood leaking from his gums over one fang, from his nose over his split and stinging lips. "Let's do it!" He hefted the sword aloft, his voice rang like a church bell through the void-lined glade. "Ye bastard! Ye'll nae take Mundy, even if ye take me!"

He charged.

The Devil lashed out, swinging wildly with claws, swiping with his whip-like tail, wings flapping uselessly in a panic as he tried to right his senses and reach out with the soil and feel where his quarry trod.

Demoman ducked the Devil's razor nails, darting into his reach to leap with the last of his legs' strength. With a mighty swing and a scream of his own, he brought the shining blade of the Eyelander down on the creature's neck, the magic sword cleaving through like its flesh was liquid. A heavy gush of black, soupy blood spilled out as the Devil's head was severed from its shoulders and landed, unceremoniously, upon the dead soil of the burned circle. Demoman's boots stomped into the sandy turf just after.

The Scot crumpled, falling to his knees, gasping for breath that came with difficulty, his chest tight, his lungs wet. He wondered if one was punctured or whether they were just thick with mucous from trauma. If he drowned in his own blood, that would give him an answer, and coughing, he spat thick, pink goo. Trauma. That's slightly better. He slid the Eyelander into its sheath and crawled to where Sniper lay.

The bushman was breathing, if shallowly, blood pooled under him, seeping slowly. He turned his gaze to Demoman and his face twisted into the mask of perfect anguish. "Demo," he groaned quietly, finding his voice through his bruised and aching throat. He sounded rough, husky, like he had the world's sorest throat.

"G'day," the Scot smiled, flopping down beside the prone Australian.

"G'day," Sniper replied with a weak smile, looking the Scot over. He was as bad if not worse for wear than he was. As his gaze swept over the extent of Demoman's damage, what he could see of it, he could feel prickles at the corners of his eyes. He hefted himself up onto his elbow, peering over at his back, at the red mess his clothes and skin had become, at how much claret ran free from him like an open tap. The tears came, rolling down and stinging the split skin on his cheeks. He scooted his broken body closer, throwing an arm over Demoman and tucking his face into the crook of his neck.

"Demo," he whispered, choking on his tears, his throat rasping the word. "Tavish."

He heard no reply, just ragged breathing.

The ground grew cold, the rumbling soil falling still. Black blood seeped into the dry, sandy dirt, and unceremoniously, the Devil's body frittered away into ash. The dead, burnt trees quickly did the same, then the fallen needles, leaving the two broken mercenaries laying in a circle of grey ash.

"Tavish say something. You're alive. You're alive!"

"I'm alive," Demoman assured him weakly. "Not sure how long."

"Fuck," Sniper wheezed. "Don't say that. Don't you say that. You can't die, because if I've gotten you killed too then I'm the biggest monster of 'em all."

"Too? Mundy, no," the Scot protested, trying to ignore the heat running down his shoulder from the wounds on Sniper's arm.

"I deserve it. Most important person in this bloody world and my stupid arse gets you dead. Because I was too bloody-minded to listen. Too full of myself to realize you were right. That I was goin' too far," the bushman muttered roughly, nearly gagging on his words as he shuddered to hold back sobs, the crackling burn of his wounds making him tremble all the more. "I felt invincible. With you with me, I could do anythin'. Like nothin' could 'urt me. But I was runnin' from you at the same time."

"Runnin'?" Demoman groaned softly, his arm slipping around the bushman's sticky, warm side.

"I was so stupid. Thought if I threw myself into it, into the danger and the kink, maybe I wouldn't 'ave to face the fact that everything I wanted was right there with me, watchin' over me like a guardian bloody angel. I was too much of a coward to say anythin'. I was afraid."

"Afraid?" The bomber's eye was wide, looking up into the middle-distance, unfocused. Before him, the darkness of the void crept away, opening like a planetarium dome across the top of the trees, revealing the deep blue of night, the stars, the clouds, the moon turning its eye to them as it so often had.

The bushman's chest heaved, "Afraid I'd chase you away. Now look at me. Fucking bickered and spat at the one who matters the most to me. Maybe I should've told you sooner, scared you away. Save you from gettin' mixed up with all of this shit, from draggin' you down with me." A sob finally rattled out of Sniper, and with it came another, and another, snuffing groans of his heart's destruction clenched between bloody teeth. "You can't follow me, Tav. You can't die. You can't pay for my stupidity. I refuse to ruin the one perfect this thing in this world. You're too beautiful, too handsome, too loyal and rowdy and fierce. You're too perfect to die like this, bleeding to death in the arse-end of God-forsaken New Jersey. You're too good to die for me."

Demoman nudged Sniper with his chin, making the Australian lift himself from the bomber's neck. "Mundy...?"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry to unload all of this on you. I know it was just comfort; I know it was just casual for you, and I tried to respect that, but mate it hurt so much to hold you and kiss you and pretend not to feel something. To ignore how it felt. It burned!" He looked down, unable to meet the Scot's eye. "It burned to spend every waking moment thinking of your smile and the sparkle in your eye and the way it tickled when you nosed through my belly hair. And your laugh, and your voice, and God, Tav, please don't die because of my worthless rubbish arse, please!"

"Mick are ye sayin' what I think yer sayin'?"

Sniper took as deep a breath as he could, his voice cracking as he croaked out, "I love you, Tavish. I'm in love with you. I—I'm sorry."

The Scot laughed bitterly, wet and wheezing. The tears drying on his cheek itched, and he could feel himself sweating with the strain of remaining conscious. His fingers were so cold, but took hold of Sniper's hand and threaded their fingers together. A smile crossed his bloody lips. "Ye could never scare me away. I'd thought the same for ye. That I was just another monster, that I'd imagined anythin' else, wishin' for more. I hated meself, falling in love. I didn't think ye wanted more'n a casual shag. I didn't think ye could settle for anythin' or anyone. But God, did I want tae be with ye no matter. By yer side."

"I love you," Sniper blurted out.

"I love ye, Mickey."

"You're serious?"

Demoman replied by tugging Sniper up to kiss him. Their lips met, mouths closed, chaste, unlike any kiss they'd shared. Every other kiss had been passion, hunger, lust. Those were irrelevant in the moment, in the meaning, and when they parted, Demoman gasped a chuckle. "How stupid we are. It takes rappin' at Death's door for we two tae man up and speak our bloody minds. And now we have, we get tae traipse intae Hell, hand-in-hand."

"I'm so sorry for everything," Sniper muttered, kissing along Demoman's jaw as he sank back down to settle under his chin.

"I am too, Love. All is forgiven. We're as awful as one another. Let's enjoy what's left, aye?"

They tried to shift, the last of their strength bleeding out with the crimson that mixed between them, leeching into the ash and sand below. They collapsed into one another, breath coming slowly in ragged, moist heaves as the darkness began to trickle in, the void gone from the sky and reaching out over their eyes, chasing away the moonlight that shone upon them. Fingers intertwined, they welcomed oblivion.

"I'll see you in Hell," Sniper whispered.

"It's a date."

 

*

 

Demoman's eye rolled open, the ambient sounds of the woodlands filling his ears with a tinny wobble as the moon called him to wake. He looked up at the sky, at the sparse, silver clouds that traveled lazily overhead, parting for the light out of deference for its influence. Lights, millions of billions of tiny twinkling points glittered, firey lights across the universe. Demoman was alive.

He sniffed, the iron tang of blood all that filled his senses, overwhelming and noisome through his broken nose. His fingers twitched, still tangled in Sniper's, his arms still circling the prone assassin. He listened, straining his damaged hearing, and sighed with relief at the sound of a heartbeat within the Australian.

His legs buzzed, cold, unused, and he wondered how long they'd been unconscious. His breath still came heavy, but dryer, and a glance at his arm showed that he'd begun to slowly clot. He carefully rolled Sniper out of his arms, extricating himself from the gangly gunman, and tested his limbs. They worked enough, he deemed, and climbed slowly, shakily, to his feet. His back seared, ached, throbbed with hot pain that shot through him with each movement. His arm felt like it was buzzing through the ebbing shocks of agony, and his face felt puffy around his nose. All the same, his legs worked. That was what mattered.

He looked down at Sniper, missing most of his clothes, either shredded from the violent congress or from the attack that had ensued, covered in his own blood and lacerations that interrupted the slim, fuzzy torso Demoman loved.

Loved.

With a deep, aching breath, Demoman stooped down and gathered Sniper into his arms. Taking a knee, he hefted the bushman up, staggering to both feet to carry him. He turned to the way from which they'd come, the path they'd forged through the woodlands to this cursed place, and began to walk.

Sniper laid limp in his arms, legs hanging over one, head lolling against the bomber's crimson-soaked chest. It was a comfort to Demoman that the scrawny assassin was as light as he was, a slip of a man stretched over just under two metres. He'd never tease him for being skinny again, if there was any chance they'd live to be able to joke and tease.

The stagger back seemed to last for years, every step a labor, every breath an ordeal. Pressing his lips to Sniper's forehead, Demoman continued unabated. He would not be cowed by something as paltry as blood loss and grievous bodily harm. He was a mercenary. He was a DeGroot. His mum would have his head for such idleness. Death was no escape from Lady DeGroot.

When they came upon the van, it was like coming home. Demoman shifted a bit to open the passenger door to slide Sniper into the seat, closing it behind him. He limped around, unslinging the Eyelander to toss behind the seat as he opened and climbed in the driver's side.

Demoman looked to Sniper, brushing the hair that stuck to his sweat-tacky forehead, and reached for the ignition. Blackness, whiteness, then both in equal measure washed over his vision as his body settled into the seat, and as his fingers grazed the keys, consciousness failed. He slumped over on the bench seat of the camper van.

 

*

 

Demoman awoke with a start and short, difficult breaths. He reached out and braced himself on the passenger door of the van, wide-eyed and terrified. Was this Hell? Why was Hell the interior of the van? Why did Hell look suspiciously like New Jersey?

Well, not much surprise on that one.

"You with me, Tav?" Sniper's voice creaked.

Demoman looked to his left, to see Sniper behind the wheel, squinting in the grey light of morning, what looked like shreds of bedsheets wrapped around his chest, belly, and arms, soaked in red. He looked down to see strips of the same fabric dressing his own wounds, recognizing it as the sheets from the overcab bed in the van. Sniper had been busy. "How?"

"Woke up an hour ago. Surprised the hell out of me to find us in the van. Brilliant work, Love."

Love.

"Tried to tie off the bleedin' as much as I could, shoved you over there, got us on the road. Should be in Egg Harbor City in a few. There's hospitals there. We can get help."

"You—really?"

"What?"

"Ye did all o' that?"

"You carried me all the way back to the van. I knew I had to make it count when I came to. Surprised we did, really."

"Ye think all o' the pine needles helped the clotting?"

"Disgusting, yet possible," Sniper chuckled, pained by the motion. "Now try not to strain yourself. We'll be there soon."

"Wish the doc were around," Demoman groaned, leaning his head on the window. "Bloody hell, Miss Pauling is nae goin' tae appreciate that phone call."

"Hello? Miss Pauling? Demo and I are layin' in a hospital in New Jersey because we were nearly killed by the Jersey Devil. It's okay, Demo killed 'im," Sniper mimicked with a smile. "That'll go over just aces."

"Och, aye. Sad I dinnae have a head tae mount."

"I'd rather avoid anything involving that bastard and mounting," Sniper growled.

"I can mount ye instead," Demoman grinned.

"Dinner and a movie first, Tavish. What kind of bloke do you take me for?"

They shared a quiet, achy laugh, hands finding their way together at the middle of the bench seat, fingers tangling.

"We're so daft."

"Bloody numpties."

 

*

 

"What do you  _ mean _ you're in the hospital? In New Jersey? Why the  _ HELL _ are you in New Jersey! Your furlough ends in two days!" Miss Pauling yelled, clutching the phone like a threat.

"Well, y'see, it's a long story, but one you probably don't want to hear, and will end up with our pay being docked anyway," Sniper hemmed, wincing at the volume through the receiver. He looked to Demoman, stretched out in the hospital bed next to his, covered in gauze and dressings, smirking. Sniper had lost the game of rock, paper, scissors for the responsibility of calling Miss Pauling, and he was enjoying watching the bushman, his lover, suffer.

"How long will you be there?" came their supervisor's exhausted voice on the line.

"Doctors say they're plannin' to keep us here a week, maybe more, from the extent of the injuries."

The growl of frustration from the other end of the line was audible even to Demoman, making Sniper yank the thing away from his head until it settled.

"I'm going to arrange a flight for the two of you to get back to the base, and Medic will be in charge of your care. Expect someone to come for you within twenty-four hours. If you're not on base within forty-eight, expect repercussions due to breach of contract, Mr. Mundy."

"Y-yes, ma'am. Thank you."

"Take care, Sniper. And stay out of New Jersey in the future. There's nothing good there for you."

"Yes, ma'am." Sniper set the receiver down after the line went dead, a look of terror in his eyes. "She's going to murder us in our sleep I swear."

"She's a sweet lass--"

"--who will murder us in our sleep."

Demoman chuckled, wincing a bit. "Guess we'll have that date in Hell after all, then, Mickey?"

"We're already in New Jersey," Sniper shrugged.


End file.
